


time became drops and kept falling and falling

by hoesthetic



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 15:58:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14264538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoesthetic/pseuds/hoesthetic
Summary: sometimes when mark looks out of the window, measures the fall from the second floor to the ground filled with green grass and lonely, lovely flowers, he thinks about donghyuck.or the story of an ordinary boy and a boy in the mirror. (they are best friends, grow up to forget and then fall in love, or something along those lines, in some order or another.)





	time became drops and kept falling and falling

**Author's Note:**

> implied past death of a family member. this was supposed to be a drabble, very self indulgent.

 

mark meets him for the first time the summer he’s about to turn seven years old.  
  
they have only moved to the house. it's somehow magical, the building very old and lived in, the dark wood of the walls homely but scary, too, when the night falls.

mark fears the dark, like most six year olds do, curling up into a ball with his nightlight on. but that isn't relevant to him now—fears that creep up only at the night aren't an issue when it's three pm on a sunday and he's sitting on the carpet draped over the scratched wooden floor.  
  
mark doesn't have friends there. when his mother looks at him with her brows furrowed—most likely scared of mark turning out as an outcast, a worry mark isn't aware of—mark just tells her cheerily that when school starts, he'll make many friends.

even if he's scared of strangers, sometimes. it's fine.

it's summer, still. his room is spacey, tall walls and the roof so far up mark thinks he'll never be able to reach it. he has tried to jump and touch it with his fingertips but it just doesn't work. maybe if he had a bunk bed, but he doesn't, he's an only child.

the present him is sitting on the floor, still, not trying to reach the ceiling, but with a red felt tip pen in his right hand, filling the white crisp paper of his colouring book, careful not to cross the lines. he crosses them despite his tries not to.

mark sighs sadly, a sound that just screams _oh well_ , and continues. children are great like that, they don't or won't beat themselves up over something minor like that. later on, when mark is older, he'll learn to do it. he'll learn to look at school work and failed goals and ache, pins and needles but inside of his chest rather than on his skin from numbness.

there's a cracking sound. it's quiet, almost muffled, but mark can hear it clearly, lifting his head up, quickly and sharply that he winces from it, neck aching the tiniest bit.

his lips are parted, brows raised. his mother tells him that he has his eyebrows like his father, always rising up rather than furrowing like hers do. she tells him that with a sad fondness in her voice. mark hasn't learned to miss his father yet.

mark looks around, black hair brushing his forehead as he turns his face from left to right.

"hey?" he tries out, carefully. mark doesn't understand it, not really, but the atmosphere of his room, it has fallen to something strange and foreign. it's not uncomfortable, just a bit weird. everything looks the same, the rays of sunshine falling through his window and landing on the floor, the dark blue curtains drawn aside.

his bed is still made, a stuffed lion toy peeking underneath his blanket. his toys are still in their plastic ikea boxes in the corner of his room in a tidy row. everything is normal, mark understands. so he just shrugs his shoulders and focuses on his colouring again.

it takes some time, a few minutes perhaps, mark doesn't really grasp the concept of time yet, at least too well. he has switched the red pen in his little hand to a light green one. then he hears it, a quiet _psst_.

mark's head snaps up again, not necessarily alarmed, mostly just curious. like he's playing hide and seek, like treasure hunting.

he hears it again.  
  
"psst, here," it's a quiet, soft voice. mark's mouth falls open into a small o and he gets on his knees, proceeding to stand up and taking small, careful steps across the floor.

he locates the sound like that, he curiosity and innocence running through his veins like watered down honey.  
  
"hello?" mark says softly, keeping his voice quiet in case his mother would hear, and sits down on the floor in front of a mirror.

if he were an adult, a teenager or even just a bit older, he'd know to fear or feel at least somewhat disoriented, but he just looks into the mirror with round eyes sparkling with interest.

"hi," the boy in the mirror, he says it quietly, with a small smile on his rosy lips. his upper lip curves smoothly, the corners of them tugging upwards in a manner that makes mark want to smile too. smile he does.  
  
"hi," mark repeats again.  
  
mark knows that reflections don't work like that. when he looks into the mirror he should see himself only unless someone is sitting next to him. he glances to his side to make sure no one is sitting next to him—no one is, and then looks back into the mirror to see a reflection of a young boy sitting next to him.

it’s mesmerizing, at least.  
  
"how do you do that?" mark asks. it's not a whisper but still too hushed to pass as his normal talking voice, the end of his sentence lifting up in tone with amazement.  
  
"do what?" the boy asks, tilting his head to the left. his hair is red, very much like the felt tip pen mark owns and was just using.  
  
"that..." mark starts, almost forgetting his confusion, "how are you in the mirror?"  
  
the boy laughs, it sounds like a soft ring of bell on a door of those sweet gift shops his mother loves.  
  
"why not?" he replies, rolling his eyes, "how wouldn't i?"  
  
mark really doesn't have a response to that.  
  
"what's your name?" he asks instead because mark knows that's polite. he fiddles with his fingers in his lap, almost feeling excited. since he doesn't have friends around here and even though he likes to be alone, too, sometimes it's boring.  
  
"donghyuck," he tells him, grinning and displaying a few missing teeth. mark nods slowly, grinning back.  
  
"i'm mark. i live here," mark tells, not quite sure why, but donghyuck just nods like he understands.  
  
like he understands. that's the way he speaks too, quietly but confidently, every syllable a little statement even though mark doesn't know how to analyze or observe these things yet.

 

 

 

 

when mark tells his mother that he made a friend, she seems a bit concerned. when she asks how and where, mark tells her the truth.  
  
"oh sweetie," she says, gets down to his level and places her slim hand on his tiny shoulder, "that's very lovely but imaginary friends aren't real friends."

mark doesn't really get it. donghyuck is very real and very there, living in the old mirror of the house, so he just giggles softly.

"he is real, mom," mark rolls his eyes.  
  
"whatever you say, little lion," she laughs, fondly, before grabbing him and squeezing him into a warm, tight hug.  
  
she smells like home, like cinnamon and flowers, a bit like mud, too. the fabric of her summer dress is soft against his cheek.

 

 

 

 

so, mark has a friend.  
  
he turns seven when it turns to august, school is starting in few weeks, and he has a friend.  
  
"i'm seven now," mark tells donghyuck, sitting in front of his mirror, cross-legged, "it's my birthday."  
  
donghyuck's face lights up in a way like the morning sun.  
  
"really?" his voice is dripping with excitement. mark grins happily in response.

”yup! my mom made cake but…” mark pauses, looking at donghyuck in thought, ”i don’t think i can get you any.”

donghyuck pouts.

“why not?” he asks, voice whiny and disappointed, almost. mark gets it, he’d be disappointed too if there was cake and he couldn’t get any.

“i don’t think i can get it to you through the glass,” he says then, lifting his finger and poking the mirror between them. it’s cold and stern.

“i guess you’re right,” donghyuck mutters, sulky but not at him, mark thinks.

“do you have cake there?” mark asks. it’s a dumb question because of course he has to have it for donghyuck to even be disappointed over not getting any.

donghyuck nods multiple times, his red hair flopping around.

“i’m starting school soon,” mark changes the subject when donghyuck doesn’t give him any audible response.

“are you excited? scared?” donghyuck asks, seeming genuinely curious, looking at him with those dark, intriguing eyes.

mark nods slowly, to both.

“yeah…” he mutters, suddenly shy.

“it’ll be fun,” donghyuck decides for him. mark tilts his head to left—it’s sort of odd to see his head almost touching donghyuck’s shoulder in the reflection but just meeting the air in real life.

“it will,” mark says, trying to seem brave, before muttering, “í hope.”

they fall quiet for a moment, mark letting his gaze drop to his hands. he starts to pick on the loose strings of his beige shorts. in the reflection, donghyuck is looking to the side, down to mark’s lap, too. mark doesn’t really get how it works.

donghyuck is wearing a faded red shirt, perhaps it used to be as vibrant as his mop of hair, but has turned dull in the washing machine.

 

 

 

 

after a month into the school year, the leaves start to fall. mark discovers the shades are called burnt orange, mustard and something like that, not just brown and yellow and orange, and he decides to tell donghyuck about it.

donghyuck isn’t really too impressed. he tells mark that of course because there’s light and dark blue too. mark is discouraged by it for five minutes before getting over it. donghyuck is his best friend after all and he can’t be upset with him for long.

“you never told me how come you’re in my mirror,” mark says after they sort of have settled their not-really-an-argument-argument.

“i did,” donghyuck says, “why not?”

“but… but that doesn’t explain it,” mark responds after a small moment of thinking.

“why are you there, then?” donghyuck asks back, witty.

“i—i live here?” mark guesses hesitantly.

“there’s your answer,” he huffs back, and the subject is dropped again. mark, still, doesn’t think he understands, like really _understands_ , it.

mark knows his mom doesn’t approve donghyuck, not really. when he tried to get her into his room and show donghyuck in the mirror—because he is always there, waiting—she wouldn’t do it. maybe she was in a bad mood, called it a waste of time.

mark tried not to get offended by it. it’s okay, he can keep donghyuck to himself, then. all his, it doesn’t really sound that bad at all.

“is school better now?” donghyuck says, drumming his thighs with his palms, quietly. they always talk in calm tones, soft wavelengths, like they’re telling eachother secrets all the time.

it’s not like school was unbearable or anything at any point. it’s just that kids are mean, sometimes, and mark is shy, sometimes.

“it’s okay,” mark tells him, “my homeroom teacher is great. i like her lots.”

“tell me about her,” donghyuck says, smiling again. his smile is always so bright, warm and welcoming, and it makes mark feel all sorts of funny things that he doesn’t even know yet.

“she reads us stories,” mark tells him in a small voice, smiling to himself, “she’s young and pretty, too. she tells that we should be nice to each other… i think she cares about us.”

“that’s really cool,” donghyuck says, “i wanna meet her.”

mark bites his lower lip in thought, “how?”

donghyuck shrugs his shoulders.

“somehow.”

“do you go to school?” mark realizes to ask. donghyuck narrows his eyes and lets out a thoughtful noise.

“sort of,” he says.

“sort of?”

donghyuck nods, again, once, twice, four times. small motions with a knowing smirk on his lips.

“sort of,” donghyuck repeats.

 

 

 

 

the autumn passes by quickly. on christmas, mark sees his mother cry. she catches him, wipes her cheeks and laughs breathlessly, the noise wet and sort of gross. when he asks why she was crying, she just tells him it’s nothing.

crying is nothing and from january to february mark colours his colouring book full of vibrant pictures, shows them to donghyuck and glows from the praise.

when he learns cursive writing in second grade, mark discovers the art of writing stories and fiction. when he manages to read one chapter of a book faster than others, he develops a habit of visiting the library weekly if not more.

he always tells donghyuck about the books, the incredible stories. mark finishes harry potter and the philosopher's stone and tells about the plot to donghyuck, the younger boy confuses hermione and ron to each other all the time.

it’s mostly funny.

mark’s homeroom teacher encourages him to write, to express because his imagination is a gift. this makes donghyuck smile in a manner oddly sad when mark tells him about it.

 

 

 

 

things start to catch up to mark when he’s about to turn eleven.

it’s summer, of course. in june they celebrate donghyuck because he turns ten and something about it makes mark fidgety.

donghyuck has been a secret for the last few years now. mark knows that people should lose their imaginary friends before they turn eight and while donghyuck isn’t an imaginary friend—mark is sure—others seem to perceive the other boy like that, unfortunately.

it’s unfortunate because very much like the house, donghyuck is magical. sometimes when mark looks out of the window, measures the fall from the second floor to the ground filled with green grass and lonely, lovely flowers, he thinks about donghyuck.

miraculous, wonderful, those are words that come to his mind when he thinks about donghyuck. but also—an enigma, mysterious. mark realizes that if donghyuck isn’t an act of his imagination nor a human living ordinary life like he is, what is he?

 

“donghyuck, what are you?” mark asks carefully. he looks older now, looking at himself in the reflection, but still a child. still round cheeks, still curved eyebrows lifted up.

“i’m like you,” donghyuck responds. maybe a few years back he would have accepted that as an answer but not now, not anymore. mark clenches his hands into fists where they’re resting against his thighs.

“no, donghyuck,” mark says, voice breaking with frustration, “i know you aren’t.”

donghyuck doesn’t say anything, just falls silent and lets that speak for him. mark chews on his lower lip nervously.

“you’re my best friend, don’t you trust me?” mark says quietly, almost sad. donghyuck looks at him with an unreadable expression, red hair framing his tanned skin. he is so full of questions, or maybe not, maybe donghyuck is the question and there isn’t any answer at all.

it makes mark so painfully nervous, heartbeat picking up when he isn’t quite sure if he wants to hear donghyuck’s response. if it’s a _no,_ what would mark do, then? what could he do if he heard that he doesn’t trust him.

“i—you know,” donghyuck mutters.

“i don’t, that’s the thing,” mark argues back, his hushed voice raising a bit in tone. it feels like the walls around him are whispering instead and suddenly all of it is so loud, so awfully noisy.

mark gets up. donghyuck calls his name, tells him not to go, but mark still does it. he thinks he might hear a small voice muttering _you’ll forget about me, won’t you_ , but he isn’t too sure.

instead of dealing with the situation, mark walks to the kitchen and ignores his mother’s odd expression at him, getting a popsicle out of the freezer. it’s one of those with two sticks that you can split in half and share with someone. bitterly, mark thinks he could share one with donghyuck. only if he could.

 

 

 

 

so, mark turns eleven. then he turns twelve. then he turns thirteen. then he turns fourteen.

it happens systematically—mark busies himself with school, drapes the mirror with a black fleece blanket when he sleeps, spends his time reading and writing, sometimes hanging out with other people.

when he spares donghyuck any time, they talk quietly, they talk calmly, and mark is sort of starting to forget him.

mark gets his first kiss behind the school building. it’s from a boy in his year, he is taller than him with round eyes and a big mouth. in five years mark will forget his name but now it’s clear on the top of his mind, _lucas_. it’s easy and flows like water on his tongue but not as well as _donghyuck_.

but then—mark has understood the limits of reality and fantasy, and that he’s way too old for imaginary friends.

sometimes, though, that doesn’t stop him from sitting in front of the mirror and talking to donghyuck, again. it makes him feel like a child even though there’s no ikea boxes with toys in them in the corner of his room anymore.

mark tells donghyuck about the kiss, shyly and embarrassed, and the younger boy kisses his cheek in the reflection. it’s almost like he feels it on his skin, too.  

that doesn’t change the fact that mark doesn’t care about donghyuck as more anymore.

 

 

 

 

the summer mark turns seventeen, the mirror breaks.

 

he walks into his room just to find the scattered glass on his floor. he is wearing jeans with rips in the knees, a black t-shirt and a cap in his head, covering black and greasy hair.

mark stares at the pieces. licks his dry lips.

“mom!” he calls, not lifting his stare from the ground, “my mirror broke!”

face blank, he watches has his mother rushes to his room with a broom and a plastic bag. it rustles loudly, everything is loud. the sunshine is falling through the window like it always does, reflecting from the glass on the floor.

it should look beautiful, and maybe it does to someone else. mark doesn’t think it does. the horrible uneasiness is gripping its hold over his guts, hands shaking with dread and nausea.

“how?” she sounds as confused, almost scared, as mark feels.

“i don’t know,” he says quietly, chest feeling impossibly tight, “i don’t know.”

 

 

 

 

eventually, they move out of the house.

something has changed, it has always been big, and now it feels too big for the two of them. like someone or something is missing.

mark has an idea but it’s very distant, very vague.

the house they move in, it’s in a different place, a bigger city than the one where mark grew up in. it’s more busy, more hectic, and everything feels always wrong.

it’s not even a house but an apartment in a big apartment block with multiple replicas of their flat. his mother says that it’s because mark will move out soon anyway because _her baby lion has grown up_ so there’s no point in moving anywhere with more space than what the two of them need.

mark is 18 years old, he is legally an adult now, even if he feels too young for that. he doesn’t write as much anymore, he doesn’t read anything but things he has to for school. he thinks it’s unfortunate.

mark used to love it so much. mark used to love him so much.

even if he isn’t sure who that him is. mark knows there was someone but in his mind, there’s a thick, fogged glass he can’t see through. distantly, it’s like someone is calling his name. it sounds nasally, mumbled, miraculous and magical.

 

 

 

 

it's not a surprise for his mother or himself when he chooses to study literature in college. the sky in the city is grey most of the time, ruined with pollution, and the autumn leaves look more dead than a colourful scheme of change.

but when mark sees him, he thinks about lonely flowers in lime green summer grass.

he thinks about early mornings with the sun starting to rise to the baby blue sky, transparent clouds creating an idyllic look with something incredibly beautiful hiding behind it. he thinks about thin layers of mist on the same lime green grass on those exact mornings.

mark thinks about summer mornings and warmth but most importantly, he thinks about childhood and nostalgia when he sees his face on the college hallway,

and remembers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> my [twitter ](https://twitter.com/gucclinen)& [tumblr](https://makkeuga.tumblr.com/) ! thank u for reading, have a nice day!


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